A Pure Death
by Demus
Summary: A not entirely unremarkable man has died. At his grave, two people who loved him meet. Rated for some dark themes and slash.


For narrative purposes, (because I am the author, this is fanfiction, and the Universe is malleable) let us say that the inevitable explosion at the end of 'Mostly Harmless' did not happen. For those who want a reason, lets say the old man in the shack who runs the Universe is a sentimental chap who likes to read angsty fanfiction.

Hence, this story is set many years after the events of 'Mostly Harmless'. Everybody is a lot older; Random has found some semblance of self in the galaxy. She has become a hitchhiker, a researcher for the Guide. For argument's sake, let's say Ford got her the job. Also, age-wise, I am attempting to follow the chronology of the TV series, which was aired in 1981. Okay now, faultfinders?

Disclaimer: I do not own HHGTTG

* * *

There has been much discussion in the imaginative side of society on the subject of weather as a mood setter. In horror films, for example, there is invariably a thunderstorm and a conspicuous absence of sunshine. Moments of happiness (like the climax of a romantic novel no pun intended) are usually accompanied by extremely conspicuous sunlight and lots of happily singing birds. Devastating misery has typically made companions of brooding clouds and very heavy rain.

This is, at least, true for most fiction. Give them their due, most authors are not completely moronic- they are intelligent enough to manipulate atmospheric conditions in the name of effective metaphorical exploration. However, this particular literary exercise takes place in England, and English weather is nothing if not contrary.

It was one of those bizarre days when the weather had given up on itself and wandered off to leave some other poor bugger to do all the work. A wintry sun occasionally made a vaguely embarrassed appearance, but for the most part it was sort of grey and dreary with an inexorable sense that there was drizzle but it couldn't be bothered to turn up. There were no tempests. No raking jagged lightning forks. No wailing winds thrashing torrential rains down on anyone who dared step outside. It was, therefore, completely misleading meteorologically as to the emotional condition of the single solitary figure walking slowly through the deserted graveyard.

Long, thick, jet hair fell to shoulder length, artfully obscuring downwards turned features, stirring a little as she walked. There was a dejected slump to the woman's shoulders and certain heaviness in her strides suggested that she carried the weight of an entire Universe on her back. She was about five feet seven, quite slim and well proportioned. Only forty years old, she had a figure that would turn a few heads and a demeanour that would threaten to remove the aforementioned heads if they didn't turn back immediately.

(It must be noted at this point for any Earthmonkies reading this that in the galactic scheme of things, the average life expectancy for any form of ape-descendent was about 115 years, rather than the 75 years estimated by Earth's authorities.)

A dark hand protruding from a long black leather coat held a large bunch of traditional white lilies. The woman's head turned as she walked, searching for the simple, homely, freshly-dug grave. Stepping up to it, she stood with her head bowed for a few minutes, then knelt, paying no heed to the damp mud. She placed the flowers reverently next to the headstone and sat back on her heels.

Random McMillan-Dent surveyed the grave in front of her with her shrewd grey eyes, eyes that were strangely misty in the muggy afternoon. She smiled weakly and reached out to touch the stone. "Hi, Dad," she said, softly.

Her fingers traced the bold letters engraved on the stone _'Arthur Dent, 1946-2021, Loving friend, Devoted father'._ She smiled. He would have liked that simplicity. There was a row of indecipherable symbols that followed the English text. She couldn't read it, but she let her hand continue to trace the inscription as she cleared her throat to speak. "I'm sorry I couldn't be here for the funeral," she said, choking on the words, feeling her eyes begin to sting with tears. "The best I could get was a teaser with a penchant for stupid, time-consuming stunts. Oh God, Dad!" she bowed her head. "I'm so so sorry, Dad I tried to get here."

She began to sob helplessly, her shoulders shaking as frustrated sorrow poured from her, sorrow for her normal yet completely remarkable father. Tiredness and misery swept through her and she was so immersed that she barely noticed the hand that touched her shoulder, didn't protest when warm arms enfolded her. She let herself be held and comforted, feeling her repressed emotion gush out of her, leaving her drained and exhausted. The father who had learned to love her was gone. The man who had had her thrust upon him, just when his world had settled, had seen the destruction of his home over and over again, had always been a rock for her when her world turned upside down. This man was gone.

She sniffed deeply as the tears stopped, feeling her unknown benefactor shift around and push a piece of material into her hands. She wiped her face and looked up to thank the person.

Ford Prefect smiled bleakly at her as he took back his towel, stuffing it into his satchel. The Betelgeusian looked pretty much the same as he had when she had first seen him, apart from the sombre mourning clothes that had replaced his brightly coloured ensemble. His skin was a little less taut than it had and there were dark red streaks running through his curly hair, but aside from these natural signs of ageing, he had remained unchanged.

Ford's odd blue eyes gazed down at her, brimming with the tears of a distressing melancholy that she'd never seen in him before. He was crouched next to her in the mud, half-leaning on an old fashioned black umbrella. "Hi," he said, his voice hoarse with grief.

She nodded, knowing her thanks were unnecessary. They both stood.

"He knew," he continued, after a few minutes, "he knew that you were coming. He knew you were trying your hardest to reach him."

Random swallowed. The simple action caught in her dry throat. "How-how did it happen?"

The Betelgeusian's eyes closed momentarily and he grimaced at her direct question, obviously pained by the memory. "Heart attack," he breathed heavily.

"That's all? A bloody heart attack? But…he was only 75 for Zarquon's sake!" Random cried, her face burning with rage. "Why couldn't they save him?"

Ford flinched at the unconscious accusation in her tone. "It wasn't what he wanted. It's never been what he wanted."

The girl stared at him. "What do you mean?"

Lost in memories, Ford didn't reply.

* * *

FLASHBACK 

Young, carefree and at liberty to roam the galaxy with just their thumbs and their towels, Ford and Arthur were happy. Though currently the thought of roaming anywhere was an abhorrent one. They were curled up together in their temporary sleeping quarters on a handy space freighter. Ford lay on his side next to Arthur, half-slumped across the human's naked chest, his hand idly tracing patterns on the pale skin. Said human's arms were wrapped loosely about the lazily sprawled form, one hand buried in Ford's gingerish hair and massaging his scalp gently.

There were two reasons for this: 1. Arthur liked the silky feeling of the thick curls and 2. Ford would make a lovely rumbling noise deep in his chest whenever this particular affection was lavished on him. Sometimes Arthur thought his usually energetic and slightly hyperactive lover was an affection junkie who only pretended sleep was a necessity so he could cuddle.

"Ford?"

"Hmm?"

"How old are you?"

Ford looked up into his lover's inquisitive grey eyes. "Why?"

"Why not?"

The Betelgeusian grinned sleepily, causing Arthur to twitch, then lowered his head to rest it back on the warm, sweat-damp skin. Why not, indeed? After all, they'd had the mind-blowing sex, why not indulge in the drowsy, hopelessly romantic afterglow conversation? He stretched luxuriously as he considered how best to answer the question and how the full impact could be achieved. Arthur's hand paused its movements in his hair and he made a protesting noise, purposefully purring approvingly as the stroking started up again.

"Erm…well, according to Betelgeusian measurements, I'm about thirty three."

"Ah, so I am older than you. Only two years older, but still."

"Not really," Ford replied, glancing up at his lover's face. "By Earth standards, I'm over eighty."

Arthur gaped. Ford's smirk widened smugly and he snuggled into the taller man, the throbbing reverberation in his chest becoming louder with satisfaction.

"Gah," Arthur commented, intelligently. "So, how long does that mean your life expectancy is?"

"Roughly about 190 years I think. Give or take a decade."

"…190…?"

"Yep."

"So…I'll go first."

Ford sat bolt upright, wrenching away from the human in shock. "What!"

Arthur shrugged. "I've never really thought about it but…"

"Never," Ford growled leaning in close to him. "Never, ever talk about that. Ever." The Betelgeusian glared into the other's eyes for a moment, then relaxed to slump once more in the Earthman's arms. "Don't even THINK about leaving me," he reiterated.

Reassuringly, warm hands began to caress his skin soothingly, easing and pacifying him. "I'm sorry," Arthur whispered, pulling him in closer. "I didn't think."

Heat began to penetrate the icy cool of the shock and Ford snuggled back into his embrace. "Just…don't talk about it. I don't want to go anywhere near that subject."

"Okay. But Ford, promise me one thing." Their eyes met and Ford was taken aback by the intensity of Arthur's gaze. "If it's going to happen, don't stop it. Please."

Ford was going to protest, extol the virtues of the life-extending treatments available, but the earnest trust and spark of fear swirling in the grey pools stopped him. "I won't," he promised. "Now lets forget about it, huh? And don't stop stroking my hair."

END FLASHBACK

* * *

A touch on his arm brought Ford back to the present. He shook himself and answered Random's question. "He didn't mind how much I messed around with his life. He wanted his death to be pure and natural. Free of any weirdness." 

Random looked at Ford, seeing the sadness in him, and stepped closer to him, threading her arm through his. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know you loved him too."

He started. "You what?"

"It was obvious. I mean, of course Dad told me about Fenchurch, but the way you two are…were around each other. If that wasn't love, than the Universe was completely screwed up. And of course Mum and Dad weren't together."

The Betelgeusian snuffled in his throat and glanced up at the sky sharply, trying to wrestle his emotions under control. "Fenny was special to him. He really loved her."

Random took hold of his chin and turned his head so he faced her. "Can't you love two people in this life? I think Dad had enough love in him for the whole world and then some."

The blue eyes blinked. "I think," Ford said carefully. "That's the wisest thing you've ever said."

The girl released his face, blushing a little at the compliment, and turned back to look at the headstone. "So what does the inscription mean?"

Ford smiled at her deduction and his sober gaze swept across the symbols. "_My body may die but my heart will keep loving you."_ he quoted softly. "A phrase from my homeworld before it was destroyed."

"That's beautiful," Random frowned. "I think it's a song lyric."

"Yes," Ford shrugged. "That too. But it's nice all the same."

They stood together in front of the grave for a moment, both lost in their thoughts of the tall, well-meaning, slightly incompetent person who had meant so much to them both. Then they turned and left the grey-mourning afternoon to continue a life that would always be a little bit bleaker without Arthur Dent.


End file.
